


kiss me harder, you’re better than you know

by propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comfort Sex, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fill, Showers, not the healthiest of coping mechanisms but, they're doing their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21883870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: Things you said when you were scared.Eliot walked into the apartment, expecting to find Quentin curled up on the couch or puttering around the kitchen, feeding his infant sourdough starter or else on the balcony smoking, even though they’d both agreed to give it up.But instead he found Quentin in the bathroom, hugging his knees, barefoot and shirtless. His eyes were open, his gaze blank where it focused on the wall. Eliot stripped his coat and crouched on creaking knees in front of him."Q, honey," he said gently, "what’s up?"
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 17
Kudos: 149





	kiss me harder, you’re better than you know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/gifts).



> this prompt has been in my inbox for about three months - thanks to Hth requesting it and to portraitofemmy for the encouragement to finish this weird little thing.
> 
> all my love to everyone who helped keep quentin alive this year, too.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a sunny, cool day in January. It was the sort of day that required a coat but that could go without a scarf, the sun heating Eliot’s skin through his coat like a warm oven. He’d come home early from lecture, excited in that - frankly, that very domestic, gentle sort of way, a way he’d always thought he’d despise but that actually felt _good_ , felt warm and safe and sure - excited in this particular way to surprise Quentin with Friday bearclaws and the overly sweet coffee only he and teenagers who pretended that they liked coffee enjoyed. He’d walked into the apartment, expecting to find Quentin curled up on the couch or puttering around the kitchen, feeding his infant sourdough starter or else on the balcony smoking, even though they’d both agreed to give it up.

But instead he’d found Quentin in the bathroom, hugging his knees, barefoot and shirtless. His eyes were open, his gaze blank where it focused on the wall. Eliot stripped his coat and crouched on creaking knees in front of him.

"Q, honey," he said gently, "what’s up?"

Quentin shook his head minutely. Eliot took a deep breath, summoning the patience that he hated that this took. He wanted to be better than this, wanted to love Quentin effortlessly, through every mood and episode. But the truth was that it took energy, that he needed more oxygen before he dove into Quentin’s head. Love took work, sometimes; he knew that. It didn’t make him feel any less guilty.

"Sweetheart," Eliot said on an exhale. He reached forward to brush Quentin’s hair back from his face and frowned when Quentin flinched away.

"I’m, I don’t know," Quentin finally said. His voice was cracked and dry. Eliot knew the sound of it, the way Quentin’s voice was when he’d been crying for a while, an hour or more. Briefly, he stood up and filled the glass they kept by the sink - for late night thirst, for an after-brush rinse, and now, for Quentin’s dehydrated panic. He held it up to Quentin’s mouth, pressing the rim of it until he could see the flattened plane of Quentin’s lower lip through the glass, and kept pressing, then, until his incisors were almost visible. It made Quentin smile, just enough, and he accepted the glass. A long moment passed when Eliot watched him drink, watched his Adam’s apple bob and his eyelashes cast short shadows against his cheeks.

After he gulped down half the water, he licked his lips. He looked at Eliot from beneath his greasy hair, took a deep breath and said, "I was going to shower."

"Mm," Eliot agreed. He tucked Quentin’s hair back behind his ears. "And then?" he said.

Quentin shrugged. "And then I, I don’t know. I looked at myself in the mirror too long, maybe? I saw all these things I hate and then - the floor was dirty, there was hair and just, mud from when it rained on Wednesday, and the trash was too full and, just - usually we’re so good about it all but we’ve been too busy and I just, I wanted to do something about it, but it was too much? And I couldn’t, and I hated myself, and then I saw my face in the mirror again and it’s, I’m so _fucking_ ugly? I don’t, I don’t know, I’m sorry."

Eliot felt his mouth draw down into a frown. He took the glass and carefully leaned into Quentin’s space, pressed a brief kiss to Quentin’s forehead.

"You’re gorgeous, Q. I love everything about your face," he paused to kiss his brow, his nose, his lips, "and I’m sorry things got messy. That’s my job to keep up with."

"It shouldn’t have to be." Quentin’s voice was almost a moan. Eliot resisted the urge to shush him. No matter how gentle the sound, he knew it would be received poorly. Again, he found himself taking deep breaths, trying to soothe himself as much as he might soothe Quentin.

"But it is, that’s okay. You do dishes, I do floors; you make the bed, I take out the trash. It’s equal. We’re equal."

"I just - I wish you didn’t have to take so much care of me."

"Sweetheart, no. We take care of each other."

Quentin scoffed and Eliot’s chest ached, like his ribs were closing in to squeeze his heart. He didn’t know what to do with the feeling; he wondered if Quentin’s brain didn’t render them both equally helpless at times.

He tried again, "I love you, Q. It’s okay."

"No, no, it’s - it’s not, Eliot, no," he gasped and pushed his feet underneath him, as if he could scramble closer to the wall and further away from Eliot. Eliot took the hint and scooted back, his hands held up in front of him. He watched as Quentin tugged at his hair and sobbed, unable to move, unwilling to box Quentin in and too afraid to make the wrong move. Eventually, he reached out and touched Quentin’s knee where it was pressed against his chest.

"Please, tell me what you’re thinking," Eliot said.

Quentin sucked in several breaths, his throat obviously tight. Slowly, Eliot wrapped his hand around Quentin’s kneecap, squeezing gently as he could. Quentin’s face emerged from beneath his hand, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

"I’m so fucking scared, El," Quentin said. "My brain has never gotten better and I keep - I keep thinking it will, that if enough time passes and I go to enough therapy that my brain will just stop being this way but it never does, no matter how much better things get there are always bad days, always panic attacks and just always my stupid fucking brain. How can you love someone like this? One day you’re going to get sick of me and leave and there is nothing more terrifying to me than that moment because like my next brain-break, I know it’s coming, no matter what. And I can’t even say that without feeling like I’m trying to trick or trap you and that makes it all so much worse." His breathing was sharp and shallow and quick, his hand flat against his own chest. It broke Eliot’s heart.

"Q, you’re not trapping me." Eliot insisted. He felt like his chest was collapsing in on itself. Absurdly, he wondered if he didn’t need to protect them both from it, like his body was the ceiling above them. He clenched his fists and his jaw and tried to push all of his tension into those bones like they could buttress the whole of Quentin’s anxiety and Eliot’s fear.

"I know you say that but it’s not, it’s not true, I’m a mess and one day you’re going to figure it out and - "

Eliot pushed one hand against his chest. "Quentin, I need you to be quiet and listen to me for a minute, okay?"

"You don’t know what this feels like, Eliot. I _know_ it. I’m certain. You _are_ going to leave me one day -"

Frustration boiled in Eliot’s chest, burning his throat and setting his fingertips hot with the need to _do_ something. It wasn’t fair that Quentin felt this way, wasn’t fair that he couldn’t just accept the love Eliot gave him, couldn’t just be alive, right there and then, without being paralyzed with thoughts of the future, of all the ways that Eliot would let him down.

Eliot’s limbs felt tense and he wanted to crush Quentin in a hug at the same time he wanted to storm out of the room and leave him to fend for himself. It was a cruel, selfish desire, he knew. But it was also self-preservation. For most of his life, selfishness and survival were one and the same, and he was only just starting to understand the ways in which he could unlink them. He tried to tell himself that he could be here for Quentin and take care of himself, too; they would get through this together, that this was partnership. He took another breath as he sifted through his words, looking for anything that might make sense.

"Even if I were," Eliot said softly. He couldn’t finish his sentence before Quentin pushed off of him, his eyes wide.

" _What_?" Quentin gasped and fuck - fuck, he started to cry again, his tears a mess across his crumpled face and it wasn’t what Eliot meant but it was, sort of, wasn’t it? There was something in his thoughtlessness that he intended Quentin to hear.

He said, "I’m not, Quentin, I’m not going to fucking leave you, I love you, I love you better than I’ve ever loved anyone. But let’s just - thought experiment, okay?" He reached forward, pulling Quentin against him, even as the space under his eyes ached with tears. "Why does it matter? I’m here right now and so are you."

"Eliot," Quentin sobbed against his chest, "why is this, what are you -"

"I’m just," he squeezed Quentin’s shoulders and felt his own tears welling up. He didn’t know what he was trying to say, felt his own insecurities and inadequacies simmering beneath his breastbone as he kept failing Quentin, over and over. "I’m not good at this either. I know you think I am but I’m not, but I’m trying. And so are you. We are doing the absolute best we can and that has to be enough."

"What the fuck, what are you trying to say, Eliot, why would you - "

Eliot held him as close as he could. He was fucking this up, couldn’t find any of the right words. "I’m not trying to say anything. I’m only, I fucking love you, Q, I love you _so much_ and I am promising you right now that I am not going to leave you. And I need you to believe me. But I’m also a shitty, selfish person, and as much as you think I’ll leave you, it’s just as likely you’ll get sick of my shit and leave me. I’m not good enough for you, you will get tired of me."

"No, I won’t, I promise," Quentin whined against his chest.

"Can you really though?"

"Yes of course, El, I can, I can fucking promise this." His hands were tight in the fabric of Eliot’s shirt where he twisted it.

"Then why can’t I? Do you see what I mean? We can’t know what will happen. But we can promise now and we can do our best. And I am promising you right now that I will not abandon you and I will always take care of you the best that I can and please, please believe me. Okay? That has to be enough."

"But you’re not broken like me, El. You’re not - your brain doesn’t just stop working like mine."

Eliot leaned back against the wall, maneuvering Quentin to pull him between his knees. He was so small, Eliot thought, so easy to wrap up. He held the back of Quentin’s head as his breathing didn’t slow and tried to model, to take deep breaths until Quentin’s chest rose and fell in time with his own. For while they sat there like that, close as Eliot could hold them. He stared at the ceiling until the texture of it fuzzed out in his unfocused eyes; he watched as new particles of dust collected on the blinds across the room. He really did need to clean this weekend; he’d been slacking off. He laughed a little at himself, exhausted and overwhelmed by all of the things, all of the responsibilities that constituted adulthood - from dusting the blinds to holding his partner through a panic attack even as his body told him to run.

But Eliot was lucky to be here, he knew. The odds had been stacked against him from the first time he saw his father raise a fist, and they had only gotten worse through every year, every trauma. It occurred to him suddenly that he was in maybe the longest stretch of his life of nothing - of nothing _bad_ happening. That he was here, alive, on a Friday afternoon, in an apartment that he more or less owned with a boy who he loved and who somehow, inexplicably loved him, was nothing short of a miracle.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Eliot all but whispered. Quentin shrugged and didn’t look up. His breathing had finally slowed, though still came in uneven time. "It absolutely does. My brain, I mean. It breaks. I just don’t tell you about it because - no one has ever asked. I don’t know how to talk about it. We may be two different brands of fucked but we are equally fucked." He laughed and let his head fall back to _thunk_ against the drywall. "You’re Kellogg’s fucked, I’m Malt-o-Meal fucked. Just because your brand of brain garbage is more recognizable doesn’t mean mine isn’t there."

Quentin sniffled, the sound of it wet and thick with snot and tears. Eliot reached up and rubbed at his nose with his thumb, dramatically wiping it off on the ratty sweatpants Quentin wore.

"Are you really saying I’m the like, more expensive version of something here?"

"Well. You have spent a lot more money on it."

Eliot felt his own shoulders relax at Quentin’s small chuckle. He kept holding Quentin close against him, his hand feeling broad and sure against Quentin’s skull, the back of his neck. Once, Quentin had put his hand there, and Eliot had spent years trying not to think about the insistence with which he had asked Eliot to touch him, to keep him near. It had upended his whole life.

"I - I hurt a lot," Eliot said, swallowing. "Not to make this about me, it’s only - I want you to understand that we’re on more similar ground than you always realize. _A lot_ of fucked up shit has happened to me, Quentin. Of course my brain is wrecked."

"But you just - you hold it together. You’re not a fucking wreck like I am." Quentin insisted. He sat up, cross-legged in the open space of Eliot’s legs.

"I am very good at pretending to hold it together," Eliot said, like it wasn’t a monumental feat just to wake up some mornings. He held Quentin’s hands, dragging his thumbs slow across the knuckles.

"But look at you," Quentin insisted. He tightened his grip enough on Eliot’s fingers that he relaxed another measure; his Q was coming back. He breathed out a laugh.

"You think I dress like this because I like it?" he said. Quentin cocked an eyebrow at him, gave him half a smile. "Nope. I have to have all these buttons because if I don’t my body will just, it’ll fall apart. I’m a _mess_ , baby. But I will not give up on you. Do you believe me?"

A long moment passed; Eliot searching Quentin’s gaze, trying to convey all the reassurance he could until Quentin huffed out a small laugh and nodded. Eliot studied him for a moment, waiting to see if he would cry or if his breathing would pick up. When he didn’t, Eliot stood up and offered a hand. "Come on, Q."

Slowly, Eliot stripped them both of their clothes. He made as quick of work as he could of his own layers, not bothering to hang or fold anything. It felt important to be close, now, more important than making sure his trousers weren’t wrinkled or his tie wasn’t creased. Quentin sighed into his touch as he pushed his sweatpants over his hips and tipped his head back against his shoulder. Eliot wrapped an arm around his chest to pull their bodies flush, back to chest, in front of the bathroom mirror.

"See?" he said. "Look at you. You’re amazing."

Quentin shook his head at their reflection, but Eliot didn’t miss his smile. "I see a very tall, beautiful man, holding, like. A weird, hairy little dwarf."

"No," Eliot said, smiling. "I see a strong, exceptionally sexy - don’t argue - smart, kind, _brave_ man in front of. Well," he laughed, "a very tall, beautiful man." He dared to pull Quentin’s hips back against him, letting him feel the effects of standing so close.

"You’re the worst," Quentin said. He tilted his head back for a kiss, the first he’d asked for since Eliot had gotten home. It was impossible to deny him. Eliot let go of his hip to cradle his cheek, encouraging him to open up, to yield. Quentin hardly needed any encouragement before he turned in Eliot’s arms and pushed up onto his toes to better meet Eliot’s lips.

"I _am_ ," Eliot agreed when they parted. "Shower?"

Once sheltered under the warm water, Eliot set about washing the anxiety from Quentin’s body as best he could. He washed his hair, first with shampoo and then with a scalp scrub that Quentin himself never used, but would never deny Eliot. He worked it into the space above his sideburns and around his hairline, raking his fingers through his long hair to ensure it rinsed away. He got out conditioner, too, Eliot’s own since Quentin could never be bothered. It was worth it for the way that Quentin seemed to relax, inch by inch, letting out longer and longer sighs as if his lungs were expanding into the space left behind by his fading pain.

"Good?" he asked as he combed his fingers through Quentin’s hair.

Quentin let out something between a moan and a sigh. "Yeah. Can I do you?"

"Only if you promise not to scrub too hard," Eliot said. Quentin smiled and snatched a bottle from the caddy and before long, Eliot found himself relaxing into his touch. His hands were square and his casting could be clumsy, but he was dextrous, strong. 

"It’s okay if you don’t love me as much, at, I don’t know, at one hundred percent all the time," Quentin said quietly as he worked conditioner into Eliot’s ends.

"Q," Eliot said. He couldn’t turn to face him, trapped as he was between Quentin’s hands and the spray of the shower.

"It’s okay, I don’t mean it in a, I don’t know. In a self-deprecating way. I just know I can be hard to love. I don’t want you to feel bad about that."

Eliot turned to give his hair a perfunctory rinse and move into Quentin's space. "You don't need to give me an out from loving you," he said, drawing Quentin back to him. He didn't give Quentin an opportunity to speak; instead he dipped down to meet him, drawing his lips across the ridge of his cheek to his mouth. He pressed against his lips in silent plea, unsure of what he was asking except to be close, to be allowed. Quentin whimpered into it. His hands slipped over the skin of Eliot's waist.

"Let me love you," Eliot heard himself say. His voice was suddenly thick, like he might cry. "Let me."

Quentin's eyes were wide and shining as he looked up. Eliot felt his heart, his chest, his whole body caving in again at the look in Quentin’s eyes. He wanted to tuck them both together in the oldest quilt he could find, separate them from the rest of the world. All of his fear, every way that he knew he was broken, came surging toward the surface as he waited for Quentin to speak.

"Do you believe me?" Eliot said. His tears made their way up, undeniable. "That we’re the same? That I’m just as broken as you?"

He felt Quentin's forehead tilt against his as he nodded. It was enough and so much, suddenly, to be allowed. He tucked his face underneath Quentin’s jaw, mouthing over his tendons, his collarbones.

"I love you," Eliot whispered. He didn’t know if Quentin could hear him, but it didn’t matter. He spoke the words over and over, pressing them into his skin, his lips slipping over the water and the warmth of him. He didn’t think as Quentin pressed closer to him, as their chests slid against one another or as he felt his own hands start to shake, aching with so many places to touch. How could Quentin not understand, how could he not _see_ that Eliot had worked so hard to deserve him, and that even now, he wasn’t sure he did.

"Can we," Eliot whispered against Quentin’s temple, “can we go to bed?" He could hardly hold back the way his body wanted to give in to the intensity of his own feelings. 

"Of course," Quentin said. He laughed into Eliot’s chest. "I don’t - is it weird that freaking out always, it, fuck," he giggled again, shaking against Eliot in a way that made him feel light, almost easy. "I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or what but I - I love you El, I love you so much, and, here, feel," he said and reached for Eliot’s hand, pulling it toward his belly and then down onto his cock. Eliot felt a spike of arousal and hissed at the touch; Quentin was hard, so fucking hard and slick in his hand. "You can love me now, if you want."

After a few minutes, after they dried themselves off and shared only a few shy glances, Eliot pulled Quentin on top of him. The bed was soft underneath him and it strained his abs to sit up as he did but the worst thing he could imagine was pulling away. He reached for the nightstand, holding Quentin’s hips steady with his free hand even as Quentin tried to rock in his lap.

His fingers were slick and he reached between Quentin’s legs. "Can I -"

Quentin grabbed his wrist to urge him forward. "Please, I need - "

Then he was two fingers deep into Quentin’s body, the slick heat of him squeezing around his knuckles in a way that would never be matched by anyone else. He relished in it in the way he always did but it was different, somehow, in this heady place of the afternoon sunlight. He could see all of the fine hairs across Quentin’s shoulders, his belly, and he felt so grateful, so loved to be allowed in this place. This was the home that they had built together, in each other’s bodies as much as the blankets and the chairs and the dirty dishes in the sink.

"Do you believe me now? I could never love you less," Eliot said.

"No," Quentin said. His body was hot and urgent. "Keep talking."

"Quentin, Q, you’re so," Eliot groaned into his neck. He did his best to keep his fingers moving, stretching as Quentin moved against him. "You’re perfect, you don’t know, you can’t."

Quentin gasped as he rode Eliot’s hand. Much as Eliot wanted more, as his wrist strained and his cock ached, he couldn’t ask him to stop. He crooked his fingers and pulled Quentin toward him, encouraging his movement.

"Please," Quentin finally ground out, "please." He pushed Eliot’s hand away and grabbed for his cock, lining him up.

Eliot used both hands to hold Quentin’s face. He watched as his brow pinched in concentration, as his lips pursed in steadying breath. When Quentin shuddered, he spared a hand to grasp at his thigh.

"It’s okay, I’ve got you," Eliot said as Quentin lowered, as he felt the hot, open mess of him. The noises Quentin made, they were painful, and Eliot knew it had to hurt but he couldn’t stop Quentin from moving even as he tried to slow him down.

"Come on, that’s it," Eliot moaned. He bucked his hips in earnest as Quentin moved. "Sweetheart, are you - you can slow down."

"No, it feels, you feel so good, I just want, I want you. Will you talk to me? Will you tell me - tell me I’m good? Tell me I deserve you. Tell me you’ll stay."

Eliot felt his shattering heart, so barely held together that he was terrified to touch it with his own words. "Of course, baby, of course, God, you’re so," he tried, "you’re so good. You’re perfect, so good for me, this is -" he gasped and panted into Quentin’s neck. His face was slick with sweat and he reached back to touch the place where he slid into Quentin, dragging his finger so briefly over the taut skin of his rim before flattening his palm against the small of Quentin’s back. His heart raced at every touch.

"I’m going to - hold on," Eliot said. He flipped them over, then, laying Quentin flat out on his back, pressing one hand into the crook of his knee to drive into him. Eliot felt his free leg wrap around his waist and it spurred him on, the need to be close almost painful. "Is that - are you, is that good?" he asked as he moved.

Quentin nodded, wordless. He let out a series of noises that struck something in Eliot’s center, plucking at his sternum like a lockpick. As he drove into his body, Eliot was overcome with the sense of being inside, of being this close to someone, of being close to _Quentin_ ; it was something greater than he could fully understand. He wanted to make Quentin understand what it meant, how this was different, how he never wanted - couldn’t have - this feeling with anyone else .

"Quentin, sweetheart, I love you, I love - you’re so good," he said, remembering Quentin’s request. "You feel so good, you’re so good for me, I’m yours, I’m ruined for you, it’s only you, always, I promise."

Quentin groaned, like Eliot’s words were as good as his touch. He seemed to regain his sense of speech as Eliot’s thrusts stuttered, understanding the ways that he rendered Eliot powerless.

"Eliot," he said, "please, don’t stop, you feel so good, come in me, I need," he drew in a long breath, his hand moving quickly over his own cock. " _Stay_."

Eliot was helpless to resist. It was only another moment before he found his toes curling, his body curving over Quentin’s as he came helplessly in his arms.

Before he could think about what he was doing, Eliot moved quickly down, taking Quentin into his mouth and replacing his cock with two fingers, crooking inside and pulling Quentin as close as he could. Quentin was soft, so soft, in his hands, and so hot and hard and heavy against his tongue. He sucked at the head and then down to the root, desperate to feel Quentin, to convince him of everything he felt, until Quentin was pulling his hair to the point of pain. Then Eliot moved to suck at the juncture of his thigh, to lick at the spot where find fingers moved in Quentin as he spasmed around them. Eliot couldn’t suppress a moan as he felt Quentin’s orgasm, his come hot over his cheek.

In the aftermath, Eliot laid against Quentin’s panting belly. He felt his breath steadying. The rhythm of it was calming, steady.

"Thank you," Quentin laughed above him. Eliot nuzzled at his belly button, dragged his tongue over the sweat and come there.

"Yeah?"

"Mm," Quentin agreed, his head lolling to one side. Eliot’s whole body warmed at the expression on his face, soft and relaxed. It was hardly two o’clock in the afternoon, but he had it in mind that they would stay in bed the rest of the day. They could order pizza if it came to it, and there were a couple of bottles of wine tucked away in the pantry.

"Stay?" Eliot asked. He bit a gentle line along Quentin’s hips and did not feel the need to explain himself.

"Of course."

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://propinquitous.tumblr.com)


End file.
